The Spoils of Strength
by WordsAreMyWine
Summary: Jehanne D'Arc is taken prisoner by the visiting Knights of Camelot after attacking them accidentally; she travels to Avalon with them, and is held by their laws to repay the debt of nearly killing the future King. Jehanne slowly gains their trust, and wins them over: giving her the chance to repay her debt, and save not only Avalon, but the Five Kingdoms of Albion.
1. The Sleepy Village

The first few chapters are preludes into Jehanne's life: the 'Merlin' parts shall follow. Also, the sequences below indicates a new section of the story: I apologise if I do not always use three, as I forgot how many to use halfway through writing the first few chapters. Please enjoy.

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Her eye's narrowed, and her mouth opened slightly, revealing a pink tongue lightly touching the tip of her front teeth; gently lowering one eyelid, she paused, then slowly reopened it.

Holding for just one more moment, she released the arrow. It snapped out of the bow, flying in a short, sharp shot. There was a gentle thud as it hit the deer's chest, and then the accustomed bray from the animal.

Sucking in her breath, the girl jumped down from her perch in the tree and hit the floor with an equally dull thud: launching herself into a run, it was a quick sprint to the fallen doe fifty metres away.

Throwing herself down onto her knees, she skidded the last few metres to the animal. Stopping herself by clutching at the grass, she came to a halt beside the creature: taking a knife from her belt, she stabbed the deer quickly in the heart, killing it.

She did not understand other hunters: taking care to stroke the animal and slit it's throat, sitting vigil till it's death; it was wild and would become more panicked by the random petting, and to slit it's throat would be to prolong it's suffering. No: her way was much better.

She wiped the knife clean on the grass, leaving the strands gleaning with red, before tucking it back into her belt. Flitting a look left and right, she pulled her long axe from her quiver, swung it up into the air, then came down with force upon the deer's hind leg. Taking the limb, she put it into the sack, and began dismembering the animal; piece by piece, she had collected the all the meat, including head, she wiped the blood from her hands onto the grass.

Standing up, she looked down at the mess of blood on the ground; sighing, she rubbed her foot back and forth across the scarlet patches: when she stopped, most of the blood had been pushed into the moist soil underneath the grass, and what was left she didn't care about.

Turning from the kill site, she held back a cough as she began the descent down the sloping forest's floor; the woodland was not particularly thick, and the sack was beginning to drip blood. Throwing the bag over her shoulder from in her arms, she began jogging.

The sack was thumping heavily against her right shoulder blade, and the thin strip of blinding morning light was peeking over the horizon, hitting her directly in her eyes. Twitching her head and wrinkling her nose, she kept running slowly down the hill. Approaching was the bank of the forest: it was a 10 foot drop, separating the woods, which stopped just before the drop, from the large grassy field that led to the village.

The field was an expanse of waist-deep plants in summer - a mix of crops, born of seeds drifting from farmer's nearby fields, and common, but overgrown weeds. It being March, it was still cold enough to produce a cloud of smoke with every breath in the morning, but warm enough for the shoots of the plants to peep into the brittle wind.

Yet the danger of the plain separating the village and forest was, any illegal hunters: which happened to be them all bar the King's men, could be caught between the forbidden hunting ground and the safety of the village. To reach the village, you had to successfully cross the field, dodging the arrows which were flung at you if you looked suspicious enough; hurdle the long gate - the entrance to the field - and race quicker than the guards and arrows chasing you across the bridge over the river Lyone. If you managed to set both feet over the cobbled bridge, onto the dirt path to the village, the soldiers could not touch you, and bows would be set aside.

Of course you had the occasional soldier who attacked you even after you reached sanctuary, purely out of bitterness of the loss of his kill, but surely, what hunter would go hunting without a knife?

Stalking to the edge of the trees, she could see no one lurking around field, gate, nor bridge. She sighed, almost exasperated at the lack of men; it was well known the soldiers were lazy brutes, and did not bother to patrol small forests or hunting grounds at such an early hour. Well, there was no reason for exasperation at least: this would mean an easy trip and less time spent plucking the soldier's arrows out of the meat in the sack, which protected her back from their fire.

The forest was open for public access, for the likes of travelling parties, and healers collecting herbs. But the soldiers were less than honourable to women travelling alone, or even the old and crippled. There had been many a time when you could here the faint scream of a women far off, or nearby screams as she returned to the village half-dressed and weeping; sometimes, bodies of the nearly deceased were found floating near the banks of the Lyone, for such cocky soldiers saw no need for these waste of spaces, and saw no need to hide there lack of contempt for them or their corpses.

She inhaled the wind which was blowing in her face: there was not the usual smell of the soldier's opium, or their fire which they often started to keep warm. They were not there.

Relaxing the tension in her shoulders, she stepped from the woods with partial ease. Approaching the bank, she sank and sat on the edge of the small cliff. Normally, to enter the forest, she would use the hills on either side: but sometimes she had to climb up the bank if she was in pursuit, or being pursued. Similarly, to get down the bank, you could use the hills if you had time; but normally, you would slither off the edge of the bank, or if desperate, jump, and hope you don't break your ankle on impact.

Clutching the edge with one hand, and holding the sack over her shoulder with the other: she slid over the edge and dropped. She landed in a crouch.

If there had been soldiers around she would have had to sprint across the field. But there being none, she walked across it; her muscles contracted with every step, ready to fling themselves forward into flight, always ready for the starting dash. Even walking was quick and feverish when crossing the expanse.

It had taken her a few minutes to cross, but she allowed the muscles aside of her mouth to release slightly when she laid her hand on solid wood of the long gate. Instead of vaulting the fence as she had done in the past, she unlocked the latch, opened the fence slightly, and passed through.

Relocking it, she coughed and released a cloud of white into the air. Through the white haze, the forest seemed to be sprinkled with snow, which it had been not too long ago; it seemed like a miracle every time winter passed, and even no snow in March was rare.

Setting two feet on the cobbles of the bridge was a good feeling, and she let it wash over her as she realised yet again, she was going to make it home. A smile even dared pass her lips.

She stopped near the end of the bridge, and looked over the barrier into the water. All the melted snow from the passed weeks had brought a torrent of water into the river, and the Lyone was now washing dangerously close to the point she knew all too well as the flooding point. She licked her lips carefully, and carried on.

She walked into the sleepy village; it seemed it was just rising now: a few people scattered around on the road, a boy herding a cluster of chickens toward a house. A few men raised their heads as she approached, then looked down; apart from Lian, who smiled and raised a hand at her. The women heard her approach and dug for their money pouches.

A woman kept on flicking her eyes from the girl's to her own belt, clawing clumsily at the string which tied the money bag on.

"Jehanne!" she called quickly before any others, beckoning her with one hand, still trying to fiddle with the pouch with the other.

Jehanne walked over to the woman and set her sack down.

"What can I sell you Rachael?" she asked, untying the string to her own sack with ease.

"A leg please, if you can," the older woman replied, "Is it deer?" Jehanne nodded. "Well then I'll take the hoof as well; Danyel is ill, and a good hoof broth will do him good."

Nodding again, the younger of the two thrust her hand in the bloodied sack and retrieved a deer leg. "It'll be five silvers please."

"Ooh!" Rachael tutted, "Prices are up, are they Jehanne?"

"You got a hind leg and hoof, it's worthy of five silvers," the girl shrugged in reply.

"Well, be sure to charge everyone just the same, or I'll hear of it," the older woman huffed, and she turned away to the cottage, wielding the leg by the bloody stump.

Jehanne moved on to her other customers, and eventually was left with two forelegs, part of the chest, and a few organs. No one else approached her, and even if they did, she would not sell anymore. Turning away from the houses clustered in a circle, the circle making up what people called the Market, she followed the main road leading into the rest of the village.

Lian fell in step beside her, before skipping ahead, turning around to face her, and walking backwards directly in front of her.

"Jehanne!" he grinned, throwing his arms wide, "How was your little hunting expedition?"

Jehanne shook her sack at him and rolled her eyes; the sack dripped a few drops of blood, and stained the dirt where they landed red.

"That's not what I meant," Lian said, frowning comically at her; Jehanne's mask broke and she cracked a smile.

"There were no hunters, nor King's men, if that is what you mean," she smiled, dancing forward a step and nearly treading on Lian's toes, making him yelp and hop back further. "Why do you ask?"

"Well," the boy began, wafting his hands out in explanation, "There has been rumours that King Uther - Camelot's ruler - has sent his son Prince Arthur and a party of knights, out to meet and greet with us Lyone's. The rumours say it is in preparation of talks between the Five Kingdoms of Albion; and apparently, his gracious Prince Arthur and his entourage will be coming close to us, if not to us."

The girl's brow wrinkled with confusion; Whinge was a small village, not normally a social point for other kingdom's finest.

"I know, I know!" Lian exclaimed, seeing Jehanne's furrowed brow, throwing his arms in the air for a second time, "Apparently so! But rumours being rumours, especially if being spread by Bretta, are normally false anyway. But if they are true, I would best be on your watch while hunting; the soldier's numbers will probably double, and then there's the actual chance of running into this band of Avalonites!"

Avalon was the kingdom next to our kingdom: Lyone. Lyone was named after the great river which ran directly across the land; at points it became waterfalls and lagoons, and others - such as the point Whinge was located at - it was just your average river. Avalon held the great and powerful Camelot as it's capital; no one liked to say it, but everyone knew, that being nearly directly on the border to Avalon, if our insane, power hungry King Alined decided to make war with Avalon, Whinge would be the first to go.

Alas, the news of this Avalonite prince coming visit was not unpredicted. Talks between the great Five Kingdoms were happening soon in Camelot; and being the nearest Lyone holding on the border and nearest Camelot, we as a village, had expected some kind of interest.

"Bretta told you as such?" Jehanne asked.

"Indeed she did."

"Bretta is a gossip."

"Indeed she is."

"Well then Lian, what was the point of this warning if you have no such real evidence?"

Lian just smiled serenely at Jehanne's flare of temper; this was the wonderful thing about Lian: he was so hard to get at, through his thick skin, he would simply ignore and deflect Jehanne's tone and comments with no real damage done. And his temperament was so warm and hopeful, his happiness had rubbed onto Jehanne over the years of their friendship.

"Because, if it's false, then it simply doesn't matter. But if I hadn't given you the information _because _I thought it was false, but it turned out to be _true_; and you galumphed through the forest like an elephant with some Prince gawking at you, would you have thanked me?" Lian stopped abruptly, hands on hips, causing Jehanne to stop also. "Well?"

"One:" Jehanne snapped, pushing the boy in the chest, and continuing their walk, "I have never 'galumphed' like an elephant: I am silent, as you well know. Two:-" here her voice softened, "- I suppose I should thank you for the information. It would not have served well if I had not known, and it turned to be true."

Lian's grin broadened, his thin, tall frame radiating glory, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"That wasn't really a thank you."

Jehanne simply raised her eyebrows, smiled, and turned onto the small path to her cottage, shrugging her shoulders as if there was nothing she could do.

Lian dropped his jaw in fake shock, then waved, before turning and running to his own small house down the track. Raising her hand in acknowledgement of the goodbye, she fully turned and faced the cottage which served as her home.

She could hear voices inside, and through the open peep of a shutter, she could see the flashes of bodies in the building. Exhaling for a long moment, Jehanne smiled loosely and started toward the wooden front door.


	2. The Intricacies of Family

I hope you enjoyed the last chapter. Please review, as if you are an author too, you shall also know the itching, desperate feeling of no feedback on your work. Thank you; please enjoy.

PS There is are a couple of paragraphs where a mental maths - or indeed a calculator - is helpful, if you wish to work out what is there.

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Unlatching the door, Jehanne let herself in; as she turned from relocking the door, she saw the room was bustling with activity. An older woman turned from pulling open the window shutters, light bursting into the room, dust motes dancing around her face; "Jehanne!" she called, her face lighting as much as the room, "Did you get the meat?" A nod to reply, slightly obstructed by a child's head walking between them. "What kind?"

"Doe." The woman grinned and walked over, smiling smugly.

"Look at my girl!" she said, pulling Jehanne in for a hug, then holding her at arm's length and looking her over, "Not a scratch and she pulled a deer!"

"Mama," Jehanne said rolling her eyes, "I've been getting deer for years."

"Deer for year!" a young voice squealed, "Year deer! Deer year!"

A young girl dropped from a teenage boy's arms, she landed on the stone floor with a slight thud, and she ran full pelt to Jehanne.

"Thea!" Jehanne called. The child screamed in delight as Jehanne picked her up and threw her up in the air; catching her, she hooked the little girl onto her hip. Jehanne walked over to the unlit fireplace, making funny faces at her sibling. As the child began to slip, Jehanne groaned and heaved her back up, "You're getting to big for this Thea!"

"No!" wailed the little girl instantly, "No no! I'm little, no no big!"

"Don't get her too excited, Jehanne," Eleanor chastened, taking Thea and putting her on the floor. The four year old swooped down upon her own thumb and began vigorously sucking it. Eleanor just rolled her eyes.

Tybalt frowned at the child, then continued his frown to Jehanne; "Did you have any problems?" His voice was the gravel-ly voice of a half-grown man's, with resentment resting somewhere in his tone.

"No soldiers, nor other huntsmen," Jehanne replied, as Eleanor took the meat sack from her and began producing the hunks of flesh. Plucking two kidneys from the bag, the woman exclaimed.

"You did say you wanted the kidneys, didn't you?" Jehanne asked quickly, her eyebrows curving downwards in confusion.

"Yes," Eleanor said happily, placing all the organs on the chopping board, "The kidneys and chest with make a good steak and kidney pie tonight. Did you see Gregory on your way through town?"

Gregory being the eldest brother at twenty three, had moved out of the family home and found himself a wife, Elise, who was currently expecting their first child. Although having their first child - Gregory - at 26, Rowan and Eleanor - pa and mama - had then taken seven years to have their next children, but has quickly recovered in stamina and had five more children in quick succession.

Jehanne and Tybalt had thus been born 16 years ago, fraternal twins, to a world when Rowan and Eleanor were young and penniless. They were brought up on what they could be given: and it seemed Jehanne had picked up from there: she was almost artistic in the way she took down her prey, dangerously quick on her feet, and subtle but effective in her way of life. Tybalt was headstrong and quickly jealous of his twin's abilities of providing for his family, and learnt to develop harbouring his threatened feelings.

Ellyn had been born five years after them, a quiet, serious child, who excelled in schooling. A further fifteen years from their original child, Rowan and Eleanor birthed their fifth child: Jacquelyn, she was pretty with a nice singing voice, and she was already attracting parents attention as a possible wife for their own sons at the naïve age of eight. And finally Thea. No one knew what was wrong with Thea, except she had been born premature, and was slower and simpler than any child of her own age.

"No, I didn't see Gregory," Jehanne replied, "But Lian told me some information concerning Avalon and the peace talks." She leant against the wall and folded her arms; she could feel Tybalt's eyes considering her.

"Oh?" Eleanor asked, her pitch rising with curiosity, turning away from the chopping board to Jehanne, "What did he say?"

"Apparently, Uther has sent Prince Arthur over the border with a party of knights," Jehanne said, "He will pass near us, or even to us, and mainly just talk and socialise. Lian called it a, 'meet and greet'."

"Although," Jehanne added, eyebrows raised, "Bretta told him this."

"Oh," Eleanor scoffed, waving her chopping knife dismissively, "If Bretta told him it's false, that woman is such a gossip."

"But," the older woman mused, holding the knife and resting her chin on the point, "It would be lovely if it was true; I mean, can you imagine? An Avalonite prince in a Lyone village: Whinge no less!" Eleanor chuckled before turning back to her chopping, "Oh well, it's still probably untrue."

Jehanne smiled at her mother's fancies. "Are Ellyn and Jacquelyn at their schooling?"

"Yes," Tybalt replied for Eleanor, "And you should be too," he said tutting.

"What?" Jehanne scoffed, pushing herself off the wall and out of her slouch, "_I _should be in schooling? I am the same age as you!"

"But _you_," Tybalt said, standing up from his chair, smirking as they faced each other, "Are a girl."

She stared at him incredulously, "Are you serious, Tybalt? Are you that ignorant-"

"Oh please then Jehanne, _enlighten me._"

"I am superior in hunting, physical activities, battle; all aspects of the definition man! And yet-" Jehanne hissed, clenching her fists visibly.

"You are to be nothing more than a farmer's wife!" Tybalt laughed, "You delude yourself with grandeurs of hunting and fighting, when in five years time you will be either pregnant with your sixth child or some drunk in a brothel!"

Jehanne shrieked indigniance. She threw the first punch.

Tybalt was no stranger to argument with Jehanne, and physical fighting with his twin was also regular. They brawled: Jehanne laying punches heavily to the face, Tybalt attacking her midriff when his punches could get through the torrent of his twin. Eleanor shouted, at first for them to stop, but as they landed on and broke a chair with no signs of stopping, for them to fight outside.

Eleanor did manage to get them outside, still flinging fists at each other; although Jehanne showed no lack in stamina, Tybalt was slowing, but still fighting valiantly.

It was Gregory who eventually separated them. He had come to see mama, and upon both hearing and seeing them from a distance away, had run up to them. When Tybalt saw his older brother he started fending Jehanne off rather than attacking; when Gregory arrived, Tybalt had backed off from the fight. Jehanne however, was a wildcat, spitting and hissing in Gregory's strong arms, which still only barely contained her. Jehanne was a born fighter, and could out manoeuvre any man, but still, her one weakness was total brute strength; her lacking it, and Gregory having it, separated the twins.

Twenty minutes after the first insults were thrown, Tybalt and Jehanne sat side by side in wooden chairs. Jehanne smiled tersely whenever Eleanor looked scathingly over at them, which was often enough for Tybalt to tell her to stop after five minutes.

"Look," Eleanor said sharply, "If you didn't fight I wouldn't have to check up on you every two seconds; and since you fight nearly every two seconds-" her voice was rising, "-I have to!"

Tybalt fell silent.

There was no more drama for the rest of the day.

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Gregory left, and brought back Elise, his pregnant wife, for a family dinner. Ellyn and Jacquelyn had returned home at two o'clock; they quickly understood and fell into the after-fight silence, Ellyn only casting one glance at the stern twins in the corner before sitting down in accompanying quiet. At six o'clock, Rowan came home.

He slid through the door as quietly as Jehanne had; it was strange how Rowan with his 16 stone of working muscle, and 6'7" of towering height could move so silently and swiftly - it was where Jehanne got her skill from.

Rowan grinned as he came in, catching Jehanne's eye - the only one to notice him -, realising instantly what had happened earlier that day. "Hello, my love," he smiled, turning Eleanor around, making her jump, and kissing her.

"Rowan," she returned, hugging him. He raised an eyebrow questioningly, yet knowingly, and Eleanor's face sank to a frown.

"Yes," she snarled, "They did fight. And guess who had to separate them?"

Gregory grinned and raised his hand; Rowan chuckled and greeted his eldest son.

"My boy!" he said, "Long time no see! Hello Elise," he nodded to the young woman, sitting by the fire. She smiled and nodded back, her small hands cupping her mounting stomach. Gregory rose and embraced his father.

"So there's been a fight it seems?" Rowan asked, sitting down in Gregory's vacant chair and spreading out, he cast a glance at the twins, "I don't know how you two even shared a womb!"

Tybalt groaned at his father's forwardness, his face souring.

"And what happened this time?"

"He called me a drunk in a brothel!"

"She called me ignorant!"

"That's because you are, you id-"

"Give me a break Jehanne, you're so-"

"Quiet!" Rowan called wearily, swatting the air toward the twins, "Give it a rest; I don't know how your mother puts up with you two all day."

"Not all day," hissed Jehanne, "I am useful, and I go hunting for the family most of the day."

"Be quiet Jehanne!" Eleanor snapped, clenching her fist around a wooden spoon and striking her hands on her hips, "Dinner's ready, and if you lot don't behave, you won't be getting any!"

It was the first time the D'Arc family had seen Gregory in ten days, and dinner passed with laughter and wine. Important news such as Elise's pregnancy and the imminent peace talks were discussed; and trivial gossip such the baby's gender and Prince Arthur and his band of knights were reviewed with delight.

When the sun had just set, but there was still light in the late evening gloom, Gregory and his wife left.

"Goodbye son," Rowan said, clapping his hand on Gregory's back. Gregory slapped his father back, before pausing, and embracing the large man. Eleanor hugged him tightly.

"It was too long Gregory," she declared quietly, "You must visit sooner!"

Jacquelyn and Ellyn were given their complimentary embraces, as was Tybalt, although theirs was just a second long. Gregory swooped down on Thea and swung her high into the air as she shrieked with delight.

"Hush now Gregory!" Eleanor gasped, still smiling with what looked like tears in her eyes, "Don't get her too excited now."

The eldest son set her down sheepishly, and paused, watching on smiling as Elise and her round stomach leant over and hugged the small child tightly. Turning to Jehanne he grinned.

"My little wildcat!" he laughed, pulling her in for a tight embrace, "What am I going to do with you?" he grinned.

Jehanne rolled her eyes. "No final words?" Gregory said, frowning playfully, "No sorrowful parting? Not a tear?" Jehanne swiped at him lazily with both hands, which he caught in his own large hands, enclosing her smaller ones within his own.

"Stay safe, okay Jehanne?" Gregory murmured, knocking their hands against his heart, "You've got to look after them for me, they're all we have." Jehanne's brow furrowed at his seriousness, which Gregory duly laughed at, before once again hugging her.

He let go of her, taking Elise's hand in his own and kissing her knuckles; she blushed, prettily as always, and smiled beguilingly as he kissed her.

"Goodbye!" he called as they turned away, "We'll visit soon!"

Elise waved and called her own goodbye, and they set out into the evening's wavering darkness.

Tybalt went inside, followed by the younger two girls. "Come on Thea," Jehanne smiled weakly, offering her hand to the child, who took it. "Up we go!" the older sibling said, swinging the little one onto her hip. Rowan and Eleanor followed a few moments after, holding hands.

Jehanne put Thea to bed, watching as the girl nestled into her blankets; Jacquelyn and Ellyn swiftly followed to their own bed which they shared. Jehanne left the room, closing the door as she left.

The parents and Tybalt were left sitting around the fire, Rowan and Eleanor talking quietly and Tybalt watching the dying flames. She sat down beside the fire and warmed her back: she rolled her head around on her neck, attempting the release the tension built in her shoulders. It was another hour or two before she decided to sleep.

Slipping into the bedroom to the sound of deep sleeping breaths, Jehanne quickly changed into her nightwear. She fell onto her bed, not caring for the groans accompanying her land. Dragging her blanket up over her shoulders and under her chin, she turned onto her side and closed her eyes. Half an hour or so later, Tybalt entered the room, lighting the room with the flickering glow of the fire. He closed the door behind him, reassuming the darkness.

She could hear him changing in the dark, and the creak of his own bed when he climbed onto it. It was a while before his breathing slowed into the breathing of sleep; Jehanne could only just hear the murmurs of her parents next door. Sighing, she flipped onto her other side, and slept.


	3. The Love of a Prince, Nor Brother

It was a week later and there had been no news from Avalon, or any appearance from the Prince: although, gossip had spread like wildfire among the villagers. There had been rumours of Arthur seeing the village and leaving; stealing women and fleeing; or simply he never intended to visit Whinge anyway, and just passed by. What was agreed though, was that the Prince and his knights were decidedly handsome.

Jacquelyn had come home a night after Gregory and Elise came to dinner, proclaiming her love for the unknown man. Her love had continued to the next morning.

"Where is he?" she wailed, "Where is Arthur?!"

"So you two are on first name terms, now are you?" Rowan joked, pulling the little girl onto his lap. She perched tersely for a few seconds, before jumping off, returning to her station at the window.

"I love him," Jacquelyn pined, looking out into the cold light of the early March morning. "Why won't he come?"

Ellyn rolled her eyes, peering over her book; "Do you really have to fawn over this man so much, Jacquelyn? You've never even met him."

Jacquelyn spun round, her heart-shaped face contorted in a spitting anger, "Shut up Ellyn! I love Prince Arthur!" she hissed, "You're just jealous that I'm going to be royalty," she added spitefully. Lifting her chin in the air, pouting, she spun back to the window.

Ellyn sighed and settled back in her chair as Rowan laughed at the child's outburst.

Jehanne smiled at the girl's spat from the wall she was leaning against. She raised her eyebrows as the girls' shot looks at each other, turning away off the wall, before slipping outside to look for Lian.

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"So do you think he'll come?"

Lian considered Jehanne's question.

"Well, it's been a week now, surely we would have heard something: right?" Lian mused.

As we continued down the dirt track, Jehanne began kicking a stone.

"Stop it," Lian said thoughtfully, frowning slightly; she gave it one last swooping kick and it landed in a horse's trough. The horse spooked and bolted away.

Lian rolled his eyes and grabbed Jehanne's hand, before lightly slapping her wrist. "Bad Jehanne!"

Jehanne grinned, took Lian's hand, and kissed his palm.

Lian stood taken back, pantomime shock written across his face: "Jehanne?" he gasped, "Was that an actual display of affection, or do my eyes deceive me?" Jehanne kissed it twice again, laughing now.

Lian was Jehanne's confidant, pawn broker, occasional lover, secret holder, questioner, answerer, best friend. They had known each other since they were children; at eight, the age where Jehanne had just been recognised as dangerously talented, no one would speak to her. The children went from the extremes of ignoring her to throwing stones at her as she walked past. Lian had approached her one day, watching as she flung at arrow into the breast of a bird.

He picked up the fallen bird from beneath the tree, and handed it to her. Jehanne watched him, her face tilted sideways as she examined him. Taking the bird carefully, her pinky brushed his, and he didn't flinch; and that was all she needed. From that day forth, they were friends.

At fifteen, their friendship had evolved to the stage of lover; when either their houses were empty, or either their days had been particularly bad, they would comfort one another with love. Bad days were comforted with sex, and tears were kissed away; it wasn't secret as such, but kept quiet as they were not married. Yet, many people expected them to marry; for who else would marry the hunter girl?

They had reached the Market, and their conversation turned to their shopping list.

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A collection of young males were hanging around the tavern, they were given a wide berth from the villagers. Tybalt was among them, slightly drunk in the dimming evening light.

"Oi!" he called to the pair of young adults, "Hey Jehanne!" He slurred, walking forward, in not quite a straight line.

Jehanne ignored him, and although Lian attempted to walk faster past them, Jehanne walked at her normal casual pace: what killer needs to go quickly, when they know they're the biggest cat in the jungle?

"OI! JEHANNE!"

She could hear Tybalt throwing himself after her, much to the cheers of his also drunken friends, kicking the little pebbles out from in between the cobbles.

"Jehanne! Where do you think you're going?!" he shouted, "JEHANNE!"

"Come on," Lian muttered, tugging on her hand, "Just come on, leave him alone."

Jehanne clenched her jaw, and as Tybalt slapped his hand on her shoulder, she spun round and grabbed his hand, twisting it back on itself. She was still angry; that was the marvellous thing about Jehanne: she could hold grudges against people for as long as they kept trying to apologise. She came back to them when she was ready, not when their pathetic pleading became intolerable: Jehanne could tolerate anything for a grudge.

Tybalt shrieked, Jehanne let go.

"Filthy little-" he screamed, swinging two fists at her. Jehanne simply skipped backwards quickly as he came at her; Tybalt's friends egging them on, Lian backing away. Tybalt's friends surrounded them in a loose circle, cat-calling and taunting Jehanne.

"Go on! Just try and punch him!" "Get her Tybalt!" "Give her some of her own medicine!"

People from the tavern were emerging at the sounds of the scene: the men hollering and joining the circle, the women tutting and either re-entering the tavern, or going home.

As Tybalt lunged, unstable on his feet, she punched him once in the gut; as he doubled over, she walked round to the back of him, and kicked him on the arse. The crowd groaned as he was sent sprawling onto the floor. He scrambled up onto all fours, then stood up: Jehanne circling him, waiting to beat him down.

"I'm gonna kill you," Tybalt hissed, spitting on the floor, his shoulders heaving with great shuddering breaths.

"You can try," Jehanne stated calmly, shrugging her shoulders and raising her palms in acceptance.

Spitting once more, he charged. They brawled: their punches hitting hard and fast.

"Get her in the face!" "Ooh! Go, Tybalt, get up! Get up!" "She's laying into him!"

Jehanne slid out the way of Tybalt's fumbling punch: she swiped out and backhand slapped his jaw before kicking his knee twice in succession. He fell to one knee, and as Jehanne walked around him, he jutted his leg out forcefully. She nearly slid out the way, but he clipped her heel, closing her ankle between his legs and twisting.

Jehanne flew onto the floor and slid across the cobbles, her head bouncing across the stones as she went; the crowds scattered outwards as she skidded and came to a rest. The crowds cheered and whooped, almost enough to drown out the sound of horse's hooves running on the stones.

Tybalt was hauled up by his friends and was pushed forward: staggering toward the dazed Jehanne, he leered and grinned. The crowd turned her over onto her back, her pupils dark and diluted. Tybalt sat on her stomach, and launched his fist into her ribs; under his fingers, he felt a crack. He ignored the groan which slipped from her lips, and hit again.

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Jehanne's felt her head whip repeatedly off the cobbles; slowing the slide across the stone, she felt one last rebound before her vision cut off. A couple of seconds later, she came around, to the weight of Tybalt on top of her, and the crunching pain of a broken rib. Over the sound of the crowd howling, Jehanne heard the sound of hooves as her head swam.

As her blurry vision cleared, she saw the bobbing heads of people on horses.

She shook her head free of the dizziness, brushing off his blows, beginning to fight and struggle back; she kept flicking glances at the approaching people. He kept on pounding his fists into her, striking her face at some points. She shouted at him to stop.

"Tybalt!" Jehanne called above the crowd, "TYBALT!"

They really were approaching quickly: it could be someone important, like the local council. Rowan was on the council; he already said that he would throw them out if he caught them fighting in public again, and this was one of the most spectacular fights they had ever had.

Drawing back her own fists, she pummelled him into the face and chest, kicking her legs in his back and groin. He rolled over onto the floor. Sliding her legs out from under him, Jehanne stood up, corrected her balance and stared into the eyes of the men riding towards them.

They had silver chain mail on, and the red capes of Avalon: it was Prince Arthur and his knights. A tall blond man rode forward, his eyes catching Jehanne's and passing his curiosity on to her.

"Tybalt!" Jehanne hissed, "Get up! _Now!_"

She grabbed the back of his neck and shirt and hauled him up: he stared into her eyes, and feebly attempted to hit her. "Oh grow up! Look behind you!" she scoffed angrily. The crowd followed her eyes, gasping, and scattering like pigeons being attacked by cats. Tybalt saw them, caught Jehanne's eyes, and began stumbling away from them.

"Quickly!" she muttered, yanking Tybalt by the scruff of his neck, "Run!"

As she dragged him, Jehanne turned to see no one was following. They may not have been running after them, but every man's eyes of the Avalonite troops followed the twins as the ran from the area. Flitting from Arthur's eyes, a young thin man with the dark hair watched her; she glared at him, turning back to Tybalt.

Jehanne grabbed Tybalt, who had sobered with shock in the crisp evening air, and they sprinted from the Market. Ahead in the darkness, the whippy figure of Lian turned onto his own lane. She urged them on faster, seeing the lights of their house nearing. Jehanne yearned to run faster away from the Avalonites, feel the burn in her thighs - although her bruises were now beginning to burn - but she needed her twin to get home safely.

And as always at the most desperate of times: disaster struck. Taking her eyes of Tybalt for a second, she looked around to see that the Avalonites were slowly following them; and as she looked away, Tybalt slipped on something and fell spread-eagle onto the ground. Jehanne felt his wrist slip away, and she watched as he smacked his head of the floor; he didn't move: unconscious.

Jehanne cried out in frustration, and saw the knights cautiously approaching a hundred metres away. She chewed her lip vigorously for a second, before kneeling beside her twin. She shifted his deadweight body and lifted it, ducking her head under him, balancing his mid rift on her shoulders; Jehanne grabbed both of his arms and legs and inhaled deeply and quickly. Grunting: she picked him up, shifting into a crouch; pursing her lips, she slowly raised her legs straight.

His weight was monstrous on her shoulders, and she almost dropped him as she stumbled forward. Repositioning him, she turned round and saw the men following them a hundred metres away. She ignored the aching in her neck, and began jogging, her normal slight bounce weighed down by her twin. The house was three hundred metres away: she would have to make it.

Sucking in breath, she kicked it up to a run. Flicking glances backwards, the knights had stopped, simply watching as she groaned and began sprinting flat out. Jehanne's whole body moaned at Tybalt's weight, her thighs burning, her body aching from his punches; she didn't know if it was her just making it up or mistaking it for the ache of exhaustion, but she swore she could feel herself bruising.

The cottage appeared round the corner, a hundred metres away; the flickering light of a fire glinted out into the dim light through the slivers of gaps between the window shutters and the walls, the thin lines of light streaking across the ground in front of the small building.

Jehanne choked down a breath but kept up her sprint, kicking up the road dust as she ran.

She slammed into the front door, making it rattle and rumble on it's weak hinges, and Tybalt fell from her shoulders. She turned and rested her back against the door, sliding down it till she sat down on the ground; her breathing intensified and deepened, air raking down her throat, her chest heaving. She glanced at the unconscious Tybalt, but couldn't find the energy to wake him.

"Jehanne?" a voice called from within the house. After a moment, Jehanne heard the door being unlatched, and although she tried to brace her shaking body, she didn't manage to stay upright as Eleanor pulled the door open. Eleanor shrieked and jumped back a step as Jehanne fell back onto the floor, before cautiously looking upon Jehanne; and quick as it took to look at her daughter's face, Eleanor's turned black as storm:

"You've. Been. FIGHTING!" she thundered.


	4. A Betting Entrance

Pronounceable variations of Caen are: 'Cahn', 'Shaun', 'Ceean'. Again, I plead reviews. Enjoy.

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Eleanor had screamed till she could scream no more, sitting by the fire, not comforting her hurting twins but glaring ferociously into the flames; she had woken all three younger girls with her yells, and simply petted them with no feeling, absent in her anger. Rowan came home after and hour or two, back from greeting the Prince and his group with the council; as the twins came to him, he slapped them both across their faces. He then began a torrent of shouts, telling his children that he had heard of their fight two moments before they broke up, and would have gone down and beaten them himself if it hadn't been for the Prince's arrival.

Rowan and the girls then retired to bed, leaving Eleanor and the twins. Standing stiffly, her face soured, Eleanor turned to Jehanne.

"We need meat," she said, her tone weary, yet emanating fury, "You must get it tomorrow morning; the Prince will be camping in the woods with his guards." And she left to bed.

The twins fell asleep senseless next to the fire.

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Jehanne woke early to the sparking embers of the fire and to the heavy breathing of her brother; no light shone through the gaps between the shutters, so she guessed it was around four in the morning. She stretched and held for a second, before curling in on herself into the foetal position. Nestling her head into her arms, Jehanne willed herself to go back to sleep, and ease her aching body. Mentally slapping herself, she realised she had to go hunting.

Almost crying out in the pain, she sat up; lifting her top, she revealed a sunset of darkening black-blue and purple bruises across her torso. There were almost no patches of un-bruised skin. Glancing her arms and legs over, they were all scattered with bruises and scrapes. Gulping back the bile which had risen to her mouth, she stood. The world spun and she grabbed the wall. Touching her cheek, she could feel the swelling from both her brother's and father's hits.

Her clothes were spotted with blood from the chickens she had killed and plucked yesterday and her own, and smelling the clothes themselves was considered dangerous; although aware of her brother in the room, Jehanne peeled away her clothes. Bunching them up into a ball in her hands, she crossed the room and entered the bedroom.

As she crept through the darkness, she threw the clothes onto her bed, they landed scattered across her unused bedding. Jehanne dragged a wicker box out from beneath her bed, and dug around her clothes; pulling out underwear, coarse but thick and warm deer-hide leggings, and two tops to layer upon herself, she dressed; the bed sank as she sat down, and she put on woolly socks. She exited the bedroom.

Kneeling down beside the door, Jehanne put on and laced her boots tightly, and put on her warmest cloak. She grabbed the long axe, her quiver and bow, her knife and her father's heavy sword which she could use already; she stuffed her blood-stained meat sack into her quiver. She knew there to be bread somewhere, and spent a minute finding it: when she did, she took only two slices from the large loaf to serve as her breakfast.

She left the house. As she came to the water trough, Jehanne knelt beside it and splashed her face with water; wiping her face with the cold morning water, she took a cup of it into her mouth and rinsed it around her teeth before spitting it onto the grass. Jehanne leant over into her lap and wiped her face dry with the edge of her top. Taking a few sprigs from the mint plant, she put one in her mouth and chewed, while stowing the others away in her cloak.

She got up, wincing as her scraped knees grazed the ground, and headed over to the small paddock behind the house; she whistled: short and sharp. From the corner, nestled in between bushels of hay, a horse stood up; it looked over to Jehanne, a beautiful dappled grey and white colt. The young horse shook it's head and trotted on the spot before running flightily to Jehanne.

It nudged it's face into Jehanne's neck, nibbling on her arrows.

"Oi, oi!" she called, laughing, "You've already broke two arrows doing that: not a third Caen!"

Caen continued to chew, and Jehanne had to duck away from him. As she walked away, Caen whickered after her; she ducked into a small wooden cupboard attached to the house wall, and took out a soft, worn leather saddle and thin bridle. It took all her effort to balance the saddle on her bruised shoulder and not cry out, moving quickly back over to Caen with the bridle in her hand. Hissing in pain, she swung herself over the wooden gate of the paddock. The young colt nickered and jumped playfully from side to side.

"Yes, yes," Jehanne smiled wearily, "Come here now Caen, come on."

Caen hopped backwards and Jehanne stepped toward him, and Jehanne frowned.

"Caen. Come here. _Now_."

He played illusive for a couple of minutes, where Jehanne stood, slowly simmering, until Caen eventually allowed for his capture. Jehanne slipped the bridle on him and brought his head sharply down to eye level, "Not again: right Caen?" she snapped, dangerously quiet. The horse shifted from foot to foot, before Jehanne frowned, tight-lipped, and fastened his saddle on.

Hooking herself over his body, she stroked his white mane for a minute, and whispered her apology quietly in his ear. He settled from his jumpiness, and almost seemed to reply to her with a quiet whinny.

It had been like this always; when Caen was first bought, a young nervous foal, he was skittish and utterly terrified of any adult, as a result of the horse breeder's mistreatment to the runty foal. Rowan had been on the verge of selling the present for the twins, Tybalt tired of the skinny horse already, when Jehanne had come home from a week long trip to her aunt's - for unsuccessful lessons on how to be more ladylike - and found Caen.

The foal was flinging itself around the paddock, bucking as Rowan attempted to catch the animal; Jehanne stood on the bottom beam of the fence and watched her father's pursuit of the horse. After five minutes, Rowan stopped: panting, he rested, leaning back against the fence. He glanced over at her daughter, then back at the foal.

"What do you think?," he asked, "Do you like him?"

"Why?" Jehanne said seriously, not taking her eyes of the horse, "What does it matter what I think?"

"Didn't your mother tell you?" Rowan replied, his eyebrows raising, "We got the horse for you and Tybalt to share."

Jehanne's eyes widened, and a smile formed at the corners of her lips. "Really?.."

"Don't get too excited," Rowan sighed, "If we can't tame him, we're selling him on to the Burghes."

"The Burghes?" Jehanne gasped, "Don't! I want him!" Her small, bird-like frame quivered with resentment, "I hate Patrick Burghes!"

Rowan rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter if you detest the lad or not, it doesn't tame the horse!"

"Then let me!" Jehanne scowled, jutting her small chin forward. Rowan looked her over, glanced at the bucking foal and shrugged his shoulders.

"You're welcome to try," Rowan shrugged, waving her forward. "Just don't tell your mother."

Jehanne sniffed and swung herself over the fence into the paddock. The colt backed away into the corner, rolling it's eyes and shrieking; it bucked and kicked the fence twice. Jehanne didn't look into it's eyes, and moved toward the creature: it screamed in protest as she edged up to it. Five metres away, Caen stopped kicking and fell silent, seeming to even glare at the girl as she approached.

Flitting forward, Jehanne took the horse's face in both hands, and quickly stroked its grey cheeks; the horse seemed confused for a second, before relaxing - but not quite fully un-stiffening the tension coiled in its body - and giving into the little girl's gentle strokes. It nickered after five minutes of persistent petting, and shook out its white mane; Jehanne smiled and softly touched the thick, coarse hair.

Rowan watched as she leant in and kissed its head, right beneath the ear, hearing only catches of the soothing words his daughter whispered. Shaking his head in wonder, he hauled himself over the fence and walked into the house. Eleanor stood at the table, chopping carrots: Rowan hugged her from behind.

Eleanor gasped lightly in surprise, before leaning back and resting against her husband. "So are we selling the colt?" she asked, turning to lay her cheek against his chest.

"Nope," Rowan replied, stroking her hair. He could see the frown lines on his wife's forehead appearing, and he kissed them away.

"Stop it, you old fool!" she laughed, "Why not? The thing's a menace: no one can ride the beast!"

"Jehanne can."

Eleanor turned round to face Rowan, her eyebrows high in contempt, hands on hips. "Can she now?"

"Yes!" Rowan chuckled, taking Eleanor's waist and swaying her to imaginary music, "Now be quiet and let me kiss you." Eleanor smirked, and wrapped her hands around his neck,

"Only if you promise me two."

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Jehanne nudged her heels into Smithie's sides, and he stepped up into a trot; as they passed through the silent, empty Market, Jehanne avoided eye contact with the cobbles where she and Tybalt had raised riot last night. She sniffed abashedly, and looked away into the distance, licking her lips carefully.

They crossed the bridge over the Lyone; Jehanne checked the water levels suspiciously, and sighed when she found no difference in the worrying height. The path faded from path, to patches of cobbles, to pebbles, to muddy grass track; the shrubbery backed away from the track, then rushed back inwards: brambles swiping at Caen and Jehanne. It was an amiable ride, and Jehanne was onto her third mint leaf, chewing slowly and happily. The gate peeked up round the curve of the bend, and she was just about to poke Caen again to speed up, when she heard the shout of her name.

"JEHANNE! Jehannnne!"

Jehanne pulled back on the reins, stopping Caen bluntly, and turned him around to face the voice; two hundred metres away Rowan was limping along, red faced, and breathing big white clouds into the air. Laying a hand on his chest, he looked up, the bellow of his daughter's name on her lips, when he saw her sitting astride the horse: blank, slightly irritated confusion slack on her face; he beckoned her, and leant over, hands slapped onto his thighs, holding himself up, head hanging.

Casting an irritable glance to the sky, Jehanne clenched her jaw and urged Caen into a gallop: resisting the urge to run over her father, Jehanne slowed the horse and looked down on Rowan, her lips pursed tight. "What is it?"

Rowan straightened himself out and raised his eyebrows curtly. "Not so sarky, you hear missy?" he snapped, "Less of the cheek, eh?" Jehanne sighed, looking away, and Caen picked up his feet in eagerness to go, itching to go, and swung his head back and forth.

Rowan took the reins from his daughter and shook them, and told his daughter to get off the horse.

"What?" Jehanne spat, snatching the reins back and flicking them: Caen reacted and shifted away to the right, away from the man. "Why?!"

The large man stood, control of his breathing regained, although his face was now red again, "Because my say so should be enough, girl!" he cried, seizing and reins and tugging on them hard, "Now get off the horse!"

Jehanne hissed through her teeth in fury, and swung herself off Caen; she stalked furiously around the horse, hands clenching and unclenching, her jaw set, teeth on edge.

"Why did I need to get off the horse?!" Jehanne shouted, swinging her hands out in explosive frustration, "What possible reason is there to stop me from going hunting?! For putting FOOD on the TABLE?!"

"Now you stop it!" Rowan bellowed, "Stop it right now!" He poked his finger into Jehanne's collarbone, "You have been fighting with Tybalt _again_, and not just your usual stunts - no -; you had a preposterously huge fight in the middle of the MARKET!"

"And now!" he continued, getting up onto the horse and glaring down upon his daughter, "And now - you just had to do it now, didn't you?! Just when I have to ride to Ryme - the next village over, to find some sort of gift to give the Prince, to apologise for _your _inexcusable behaviour- you go and take the horse!"

"Why aren't you telling Tybalt this?!"

"Because! He hasn't done anything!"

Jehanne screamed in fury and the injustice, and slapped Caen on his rump, sending the colt galloping off down the path.

"You'd better be home by 9am for the Prince's welcome ceremony, or your mother _and I _will cuff you!" Rowan roared over his shoulder as he sprinted off.

Jehanne stamped her feet in rage, and punched the air repeatedly: wanting to feel the connection of fist to solidarity, but too scared to punch the tree for fear of scraping her already bruised knuckles. Hissing at her own cowardice, Jehanne stormed to a tree and punched it, over and over again, tenderising her knuckles and leaving blood on the tree. With another vehement cry, she turned away.

She was halfway across the field; the morning light had still yet to seep across the dark sky. Anger was still strung up and down her arms, her blue veins tight and pressed close to the skin; Jehanne was too furious to be anything but physical. Ignoring the easier, gentler slope at the sides of the fields, she climbed swiftly up the bank wall: breathing unevenly as she stretched out her bruised, swelling muscles to reach the grips in the softening mud. She hauled herself up and sat on the ledge, taking a moment to regain her breath. Jehanne stood.

Stroking her downy fringe close to her forehead, she fell silent, and crept forward; she entered the sparse forest, hooking an arrow onto her bow and poising it to shoot. Not a sound broke the silence as she moved silkily through the trees. She reached the point where she could only just see the bank and the field, and looked around the greenery. Nothing as yet, Jehanne put away her bow and climbed a tree.

Her anger had melted away into the silence of the woods, and her blank mind allowed her to climb higher than she intended; she dropped down a couple of branches, two from the bottom and barely above ground. Jehanne crouched, and reapplied an arrow to her bow, set, waiting for her prey. She stayed there, surveying for some time.

Her hunting ears picked up a small crunch: turning with practised skill, she spun rapidly on the branch and let her arrow slide out of the bow. It hit a rabbit: caught it right through the eye. Jehanne smiled and leapt the small height from her perch, retrieving the animal and putting it into the sack; it would be a nuisance to hunt with the sack in her hand, so she tied it to her belt. She knew her mother would want more meat than a rabbit, so she decided to hunt longer; Jehanne pondered stalking, but returned to her preferred style of hunting: climbing a tree and waiting for the prey to come to her. She was better with a bow from height.

Climbing the same tree, but higher, she again sat, and waited. It was longer this time, but eventually game came. Her mouth slacked slightly as she took it in; a huge buck deer: an unusually large adult male with an incredible, wide set of antlers. With it, came presumably it's son: a child buck, just edging into puberty: soft, downy stumps rising from it's head.

She had to make the choice. The male: amazingly big with the best set of antlers Whinge had seen for the past decade; but she would not be able to carry it. Just from a glance, she knew that it weighed double her own weight, maybe double and a half; her brother was one thing, and maybe, if she had been in her very physical prime, maybe she could of: but battered, bruised and beat, no. The decision made, Jehanne weighed the bow in her hands and aimed for the buck; it was a long shot, they were maybe one hundred and fifty metres away.

With grace, she stood slowly on the branch, and released the long, lazy shot. It hit the buck in the skull. She had no hesitation, and jumped the nine feet out of the tree, her cloak flying out behind her. Landing in a crouch, Jehanne threw herself into a sprint, eyes fixed firmly on the buck.

The adult hadn't realised anything had happened, until the buck fell to it's knees and tipped onto it's side, revealing the long wooden arrow stuck into it's head. The adult then saw Jehanne running toward then, brayed loudly in exclamation and panic, turned, and galloped away. Jehanne ignored it and checked the buck's pulse, which was non-existent.

Jehanne allowed herself a smug smile, before beginning her work. Like the last time, she removed the arrow and put it back in the quiver, and began relieving the deer from the burden of it's limbs. Quickly, it was sacked up with the rabbit, and there was nothing to the suggest their prolonged stay apart from the now vaguely reddish earth and grass. Pursing her lips in pleasure, she decided she had enough meat with the buck and the rabbit.

It was early, and she was looking forward to coming home to be hopefully in her mothers favours once more. The sun had leaked into the sky and it had become a watery grey; unappealing, but not especially forewarning rain; Jehanne pondered the likes of her return, and how much meat she should sell if -

_Snap. _


	5. Quivering Arrows

I wrote this and all the previous chapters before publishing any works on this story. I am a severely slow writer anyway, and also I have lots of exams happening at the moment - with heavy cases of writers block being thrown in the cocktail too - a forewarning to you all, it may be many weeks, maybe months, before I repost on this story. Thank you for everything up to this point: I shall persevere with both studies and story-telling, so please, enjoy.

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_Snap._

Whipping round, the arrows in her quiver rattled against each other. She'd heard it, she's known she'd heard it: the sound of a twig breaking underfoot. Throwing herself behind a tree, she stopped breathing and began counting the seconds. After ninety seconds with no further sound heard from her trained ears, she calculated the possibility of a mistake. But no, there it was again, the sound of a twig snapping. She had to run.

Launching herself off the tree, she hurtled down the slope, skidding on the dewy morning grass; snapping her head back she saw nothing, but knowingly she didn't trust her eyes. Eyes were the worst senses: they saw things that weren't there, and didn't see things that were; she could trust all senses but her eyes.

It was twenty minutes to the forest on foot walking, so she guessed five running at her speed. Her brows crunched together as she took in the weight that would be slowing her down to an average speed run, and guessed ten minutes.

She could take no chances from now on. If she jumped the bank she risked injury, and if she was being pursued by the guards, if you couldn't run, they would get you: just that jump risked being beaten, stolen from, raped, killed, unrecoverable injuries.

Creeping out of the bushes, Jehanne slunk onto the ground and came to a rest lying on her belly, just before the edge of the bank. The bank ran along the full width of the field, but there was no time to get to the footpaths at either side.

She quickly got up onto her knees and gathered the heavy sack in her arms, before swinging her legs over the bank. Checking behind and in front of her, she dropped herself over the edge, and fell. It was a seemingly longer drop with no hand to catch herself, and she landed in a precarious crouch; it had become an accustomed move over the years, and could probably do it blindfolded, but nervous with no balance, Jehanne trembled slightly.

Now was the most dangerous part: the field. Swinging the bag back over her shoulder, attached it to her quiver securely, making it easier for when she ran across the it; Jehanne faced the expanse of emptiness, and the long gate, a good five hundred metres away. She was fairly sure the person from the forest was not following, but Jehanne did not want to take the chance. But it seemed luck, fate, nor chance were not in her favour, and misfortune struck the worst blow.

Jehanne now knew that it was not guards who were in the forest, for they were to the right of her, climbing across the fence of the adjoining field, presumably going to their post in front of the gate. Jehanne did not breathe, and pressed herself against the muddy wall of the bank.

The soldiers were noisy and boisterous, over confident with their big swords and loud voices. They were laughing and young, and just entering the field, maybe three-quarters up the field, towards the bank, towards her. Jehanne still did not breathe, and her back was flat against the wet mud: she could feel it seeping onto her cloak. She could hear their crude jokes and conversation.

Calculations ran through her head: strategies swelled into her brain, challenging her to choose her safest option. But the only thing she could remember was what her father had once said to her. _If they're young and drunk, run or fight; if they're experienced, I believe in you._ She remembered Tybalt had been so mad that Rowan had been giving her strategy lessons while he had been away; although, if her memory served, it had been spending the night at older woman's, Lilith's house. Rowan had slapped Tybalt on the back when he found out, and had laughed heartily, grinning at his son sneakily; Eleanor on the other hand had slapped her son around the head, and boxed his ears for disrespecting Lilith. Although, Lilith was hardly a virgin: she's taken many men into her bed after her husband ran off with a prostitute, her honour was barely there, let alone tainted.

Rowan had told her to run; he had told her to fight. She had to escape, with the meat.

She closed her eyes, took one long, deep breath, and kicked herself off the wall.

Jehanne was silent as she streaked across the field: her feet barely glanced the earth; the sack of meat was flung out behind her, caught in the wind of her flight. But her flight was never going to go unnoticed, and the soldiers saw her tall frame flitting across the field; and, as many a time before, a chase pursued.

Her body seemed to slip through the air in a tunnel of wind, and she propelled herself forward in a tide stream of speed; the sack suddenly thumped hard against her back: an arrow had sunk deep into the meat, the force of the arrow thrusting the sack forward and hitting her right between the shoulder blades. She grunted, but continued.

Another two hit her - less than a second between them - and she stumbled: losing control of her footing. She skidded across the wet grass and fell flat, sliding forward a few metres on her belly: she sucked in breath deeply as the rough earth ground into her bruised body.

Before she had finished her slide, Jehanne grabbed her bow and notched an arrow. Rolling onto her back, she fired off two arrows in quick succession; they hit the closest guard in the knee and hip, and he fell, crying to the sky in pain. She got the two archers in the shoulders and the arms: she was sure not to aim for kill spots, or even the cripple shots; she remembered her first kill, and how scared and powerful she had felt.

It had happened just as it was happening now. She was being chased, but she was closer to the river than she was now - across the long gate and beside the bridge. She was being chased by a group of older guards: in their late forties and fifties, apart from one young soldier, maybe twenty she had guessed. None of the others had been able to keep up with her, except this one young recruit. He had caught up with her, and they fought: the clashing metallic ring of their swords smashing against each other, fighting to be heard over the flowing Lyone river.

Jehanne was young, thirteen, and she was evenly matched to the soldier of twenty, her superior skill keeping his brute strength at bay. In one final sweep of her short, child sword, she swept the man's own weapon from his hands, and they both watched as it flew far, into the hungry mouth of the river.

The man had turned to stare at the child, surprise turning to vain anger and furious defeat; he charged at her, his arms wide, spittle flecking his lips as he cried in anguish. Jehanne slashed the man through his armour, penetrating his skin in a deep diagonal line: gasping the man dropped to his knees. She looked into his still-angered eyes, and did not pity him. She drew her sword high above her head, and brought it down with such force into his open mouth: closing her eyes as she pushed it deeper into him; she could feel her sword, as though an extension of her arm, sliding out of the back of his neck.

Holding for a moment as the man choked on his own blood, Jehanne drew the weapon from his dead body. She was silent as the elderly men arrived, panting, their faces scrunched with sweat, and she took in their faces as they looked down at the dead man's body, a slit in the back of his neck visible and flowing blood. One of the men ran at her, vengeance in his withering eyes, and she could still remember driving her sword into his stomach, sticking him through. She could still remember gathering her woven sack of meat, turning and running away across the bridge.

The memory lingered as she leapt up off the dewy morning grass and turned to run away. She listened only to the sound of her hard breath as she sprinted away, followed like a fox from the hounds.

Jehanne could feel her muscles contracting with every long bound, and she relaxed into the harsh pace with ease; casting a look back, her comfort dissipated into nothing when she realised how close the guard had become when she had fallen. She stepped it up further, the guards possibly the closest they had ever gotten, and nearly stumbled when she realised how close the long gate was too.

She had lost control of the situation. It was only twenty metres to the long gate. Jehanne hurtled forward: ten metres, five metres, one metre. Here, she planted her right hand firmly on the gate, and swung her full body weight over: her skin stretched, her bruises screamed, but relief was the only feeling that swamped her when her feet hit the ground on the other side.

Immediately, Jehanne began sprinting again, running and running, away. She passed the point where she had fought with her father, she passed the point where the hedges became thick and lush, and where they became tatty, sprawling shrubs. She could hear the sound of the Lyone river growing, but also still the sound of the guard's footsteps; counting the amount of steps and breathing, she estimated five were still following her. The bridge finally came into the view as Jehanne got round the last bend: only thirty metres to freedom, the home stretch.

Out of nowhere, a sword sliced at the back of her sack. She looked around in shock, and as she did so, the same sword sliced down her face: from just above her right eyebrow, over her eyelid, to halfway down her cheek. Jehanne's face twisted in further pain and fury. She forgot herself from two minutes ago: she forgot she didn't kill, and saw only red.

She stopped, and the guard crashed into her: he fell face down on the floor; Jehanne unsheathed her sword, and drove it between his shoulder blades, twisting it 180 degrees with savage force. Turning, she wiped dripping blood from her eye, and shot an arrow straight between the next guard's eyes, and another in his throat; three more arrows buried themselves in the next guard's chest.

Two more soldiers remained, and no arrows. Jehanne took on the first one. He swung his sword above his head, so Jehanne slipped around him and raked her blade down his spine, and swung the edge of the sword deep into his calves. He screamed. She then took on the second, younger guard: he lunged down for her abdomen, she sliced his hand, and he dropped to his knees. She stamped the sword flat onto the ground. Jehanne held his wrist to the floor with her foot, and stuck her dagger through his palm into the ground beneath.

Spinning around, she caught the first man's sword, which was about to plant itself in her shoulder, in her palm, so it cut deep. She pushed the sword back, grunting as the blade stuck deeper into her flesh. It was a battle of strength, as Jehanne pushed the sword closer and closer to the soldier's face, while hurting herself in the process; the guard stared at her incredulously as blood flowed heavily from her hand, but she kept pushing. He suddenly drew the sword back and went to re-swing it at her. Jehanne smashed the sword away with her own, the metallic sound ringing in their ears, and his weapon flew far, landing in the bushes. She mercilessly slit his throat, and watched as he dropped to the floor, drowning in his own blood. The memory of her first kill reappeared in her mind: she dismissed it.

Jehanne stopped, her breaths so deep they seemed to be the only sound she could hear. Her body ached with lack of sleep and physical exhaustion. Her head spun as she turned slowly, one final time, to the last guard. He cowered before the teenager, on his knees, one hand knifed to the ground. He look up once, Jehanne blotting out the early morning sun, so she was only a dark silhouette with a glowing outline.

"Mercy!" he cried, his voice cracking. "Oh please, please, have mercy.." he sobbed, cradling his head in one hand.

She dropped to one knee before him, and laid one hand over his bloodied one on the ground. She slowly rose her hand to the hilt of the dagger, and dragged it quickly and smoothly from his wound: the soldier shrieked, and retracted his hand, crying, to his chest. Jehanne stood.

"Bury your dead," she murmured quietly. "Do not remember my face."

She turned to face Whinge, the morning light casting a pleasant glow over the roofs of the houses a way off. Stumbling, bleeding, she began her walk home.

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There was a cut-off shriek and the smash of something ceramic being dropped. Jehanne ignored it, knowing her appearance would cause many such reactions as she limped through the village. She was leaving a blood trail through the town, a heavy, constant flow of the scarlet liquid dripping steadily from her face and hand.

It was a slow walk. Jehanne only looked straight ahead, her head still held high, so people stared all the wanted as she passed: a pair of little boys followed her as she walked, skipping and jumping over the trail of her blood, cawing and shouting with the joy of their new game.

Jehanne reached the market place and paused, her breath light and fast; it was Saturday, so market started early at six o'clock. Now at seven o'clock, the square was bustling: women walked smiling with children's hands enclosed in their palms; men strolled along the stalls, laughing with the sellers and bargaining their wares down; toddlers swinging happily from grandmother's arms, and sitting delightedly on grandfather's shoulders.

Jehanne inhaled deeply, tasting the smells of the market, and dragged herself forward, counting each step. People silenced as she passed, not looking in her eyes, but looking at her bloodied back as she walked on, and whispered behind it: they knew not to talk too loud or look too closely, they knew there would be bodies on the path.

Halfway through, she stumbled on a loose cobble: that one stuttering step knocked the wind from her lungs. She grunted, and bent over, gasping for breath. It was a long moment before she stood up again; as she stood, she caught the eye of a man in the window of the State House.

The State House was a house in every Lyone village, whereupon all official business was conducted: from land settlements to divorces, Whinge and every other village in the land was dictated to have such a home. It was usually placed in the centre of the town, and was the largest or most modern house to be had. The Whinge State House was two stories, and was built of stone: it was the best house in the village, it even had stained glass to the sides of the polished wooden door, and in it lived the Town Leader.

The Town Leader was the town representative, always a man, and had to be forty years old or more - twenty of those spent living in the town. They lived in the State House, and every four years a new Leader was elected from the Council to represent the town. The Council was a constant board of locals, of both genders, who helped the Leader govern the town as best they could: they got elected every two years, but could also be re-elected for another term. This was the Council Rowan was currently on, and he seemed a popular choice for the next Town Leader.

The current Town Leader was Jeremiah Singley, and was on his second run as Leader. He had been a thin, fair man, but turned plump and pompous by the richer luxuries of being Town Leader; although prone to finer wines he did not deserve nor could pay for, and was vain in both face and fashion, he was not completely unlikeable. Through his airs and graces, Jeremiah was still fair in settlements of land and grain, and could solve disputes between the people with soothing words, and sometimes bribes if need be.

The face from behind the glass window broke the silent stare between them and Jehanne, blinking, and she suddenly recognised them as the black-haired boy from party of Avalonites: he had been riding among them, although dressed plainly, not in their red capes and chain mail.

Jehanne sighed, and walked on. Her muscles burned like no other, but home was not far if she paced herself faster. Opening her mouth to hiss in pain as she walked forward, blood from the slice on her face ran into her mouth and onto her tongue: Jehanne spat the blood out ferociously, turning her face from the bloody spit on the ground.

At last, she reached home. She let out a long, wearied sigh as she shuffled slowly up the garden path. Painstakingly slowly, raised her bruised hand and pushed the door open; walking in, she expected the howls of D'Arc life, but it was silent, and she was alone. Letting out one lone, dry sob, Jehanne dropped her meat sack, finally released of it's heavy weight, and staggered forward. She fell to her knees before the dying embers of the fire, and smiled weakly at the friendly warmth of it.

Sliding down onto the wooden floor, she rested her head of the warm but hard tiles of the fireplace. She closed her eyes and passed out.


End file.
